


To Bow the Head

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:49:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thracia is running out of options, and its king needs to find his own answer before his people lose what little they have left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Bow the Head

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _any, any, the first feeling is pain - every morning_

He woke from the touch of sunlight, pale and wan, that filtered through the window-slit and slashed across his eyes like lancepoints despite the tangle of coverlets pulled up close against the cold. 

Travant declined to bother sparing a curse for being jolted suddenly awake; whether awake or asleep, it was all the same. Whether endless dreams of black and crimson, arrow-volleys and barren mountain valleys filled with empty fieldstone croftholds, or the waking nightmare that awaited as soon as he threw the death-dreams off, it was all the same.

_There's no end._

He threw off the coverlets and snatched up the waiting robe in the same motion, not fast enough -- old scars, too many bone-breaks over the years, old before his time -- to avoid the blast of frigid air before wrapping the heavy wool around himself. Footwear located, he looked towards the table of reports and new dispatches and swore again. Of _course_ there would be more ill news delivered while he snatched a few hours sleep.

_More of the same, I expect. There's no reason to expect otherwise._

Dropping into a chair with a smothered hiss of discomfort, Travant spared a glance over the maps spread across the table and their pitiful tallies of livestock and crops, the miserable crofter counts, before cracking the seal on the first dispatch and skimming swiftly. 

The sound of parchment tearing followed equally swiftly.

_Grannvale ... Plump bastards, they know they hold us hostage as long as they hold Manster._

The tang of bitter bile rose at the memory. Thracia had been so close -- so _close!_ \-- to solving their every need, and Grannvale had snatched the prize clean from the dragon's jaws. 

_Mercenary? Hah. The sellsword reputation was preferable to being kept on a leash of desperation._   
_"Neutral". An empty word. Neutral no longer._

Grannvale and its mad Emperor demanded Thracia continue to sortie against the spawn of House Chalphy and his impossible string of victories. It was a fool's gambit, and yet ...

And yet.

_Her brother, her _true_ brother, fights alongside Sigurd's son._

There were reports, of course, that Ethlyn's younger child also carried the intention of uniting the Thracian peninsula. Travant snorted; it would never happen, of course. There was too much bad blood, too many of the arrogant Manster fools who would sooner see the south starve itself out than capitulate, and he would never bow his head to the likes of the bastards of Manster

_... Unless the old dogs are dead by this Seliph's hand before Quan's boy makes his move._

The thought slipped in like an eel in a mountain creek, sleek and ominous. Pride warred with creeping pain and stronger weariness, not for the first time; how long, how long could he keep doing this, how long could he watch his people wither away while fighting tooth and claw, and every gain balanced by a greater loss? 

_I will not kneel to the spawn of Leonster's brat. Nor Chalphy's remnant._

But you raised Altena to rule ... a second thought, rebellious, even as he reviewed the next dispatch. You raised Altena so, and your own son has never experienced the spurs of Manster arrogance in his flesh, only the same empire that Seliph is warring against. 

_If they came to an accord ..._   
_If Altena could bridge that gulf ..._

A single, bitter laugh rasped from Travant's throat. Of course. The answer could be simple, if he found the gall to swallow his own pride within his own kingdom's borders and give over.

_The only way for it to end, is to remove all the old dogs from the board._

He was tired. Tired of the fighting, of the maneuvering, of the dire necessities required to keep his people's flesh and spirits held together. 

Let it pass; let it pass on, let them find a way free of the old agonies.

_This battle will be my last._


End file.
